


Broken Hibernations

by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23086351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/pseuds/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels
Summary: Eddie's having nightmares, and Richie's trying to be romantic.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Kudos: 87





	Broken Hibernations

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr: https://letmetellyouaboutmyfeels.tumblr.com/post/190611761003/if-i-had-my-way-wed-sleep-every-night-all

Richie is not, by most standards, a very romantic person. Granted, most of his attempts at romance are from when he was eleven, twelve, thirteen, and so on, a snot-nosed motormouth kid and then a snot-nosed motormouth teenager who thought helping Eddie sneak into the theater was the height of chivalrous gestures.

But he thinks, he’s _pretty fucking sure_ , that he’s been managing to make his intentions really fucking obvious, here. Obvious enough that all the other Losers have noticed, anyway. Mike keeps smiling at him all proud and Ben will nudge him with his elbow like they’re having a silent conversation and Bev keeps giving him and Eddie these _aww_ looks.

Stan keeps glaring at them but that might have something to do with how Richie keeps doing things like smuggling a bunch of handmade sock puppets into the hospital to re-enact the battle in the sewers using said puppets so that Stan’s all caught up on what happened while he was stuck on suicide watch.

Who doesn’t like sock puppets, is what Richie wants to know.

But Eddie— _Eds, Eddie my love, Eddie Spaghetti, Edward Kaspbrak_ —Eddie doesn’t seem to have caught the motherfucking _drift_ yet.

Either that, or he’s caught it and is politely ignoring it, and that… that would be so much worse.

Since the whole being impaled thing, Richie’s been on ‘look after Eddie’ duty, a position he finds wholeheartedly acceptable, nay, perfect, because now he’s got Eddie all to himself in his empty but very fancy LA home and he can spoil Eddie to his heart’s content and do what he had promised himself he’d do, what he’d begged and bargained and bribed the universe with, while he was sitting by Eddie’s hospital bed praying he’d live: namely, stop being a fucking coward and show Eddie that he’s in love with him (stupidly so) and has been for, oh, about 27 years, give or take.

He changes Eddie’s bandages. He makes the stupid health food that Eddie likes, even though Eddie now knows he’s not allergic to everything in the world and has a major fondness for Ding Dongs. He keeps the house clean since Eddie’s still a neat freak. He takes Eddie on long walks, asks Eddie’s thoughts on interior design and then does exactly what Eddie wants, and cues up all of Eddie’s favorite ‘80s movies like _Lost Boys_ and _Dead Poets Society_.

Somehow, Eddie has failed to realize that his all translates to _I want to suck your cock and also marry the fuck out of you._ And Richie is at a loss.

Maybe he should just bite the bullet and _say_ it? He’s not Ben, he’s not going to write a poem. And Stan, although adorable in his devotion to his wife, is a bit too sappy for Richie’s tastes—he’s not about to start calling Eddie ‘babylove’. But saying ‘oh hey I’ve been in love with you since I was twelve’ is kind of a lot to dump on a guy, right?

In fact, he’s wide awake debating this conundrum in his head when he hears a hoarse noise from Eddie’s bedroom.

Now, Richie’s got nightmares. Bad ones. He’s talked to Bev about it—about what he saw in the Deadlights, Eddie dead, ripped apart right in front of him, the whole horrible future unfolding—and the nightmares have lessened over time, fewer and farther between, but he still has them. Still dreams about Eddie heavy and cold underneath his hands.

Point is, he knows what nightmares sound like.

He’s up and in Eddie’s room before he can blink, and it’s only after that he wonders if he shouldn’t be here. If Eddie wouldn’t want him. But now it’s too late, he’s right by Eddie’s bed, and Eddie looks _miserable_ , his face all pinched up the way it would get when he was talking about AIDS as a kid (Eddie’s number one childhood fear, and wow, if that metaphor wasn’t fucking obvious in hindsight).

So Richie puts his hand on Eddie’s shoulder and gently shakes him. “Hey, hey, Eddie. It’s okay, you’re safe.” Is he dreaming about dying? About being left alone in the dark? “You’re okay.”

Eddie’s eyes fly open and he flails, swinging like he’s being attacked, and he punches Richie right in the fucking jaw.

“Ow!” Richie stumbles back. “Dipshit, what the hell!?”

“Oh my God, what the fuck?” Eddie sounds exactly zero percent contrite. “You scared the shit out of me!”

“I was trying to help you! You were having a nightmare!” Only Eddie would get angry at someone for trying to help comfort him, Jesus fuck.

Eddie does look a bit contrite at that, though. “Oh.”

“Yeah, man, sounded pretty bad.” Richie rubs at his sore jaw and sits on the edge of the bed. “Nice right hook.”

“Thanks.” Eddie sighs, then looks at the clock. It’s two in the morning. “I think I’ll get some work done. Maybe clean the kitchen.”

“You’ll—what? Man, no, fuck that, you need sleep. You’re still healing.”

“Yeah, well, every time I try to sleep, I just dream about–” Eddie’s mouth snaps shut so fast it’s like he’s got lockjaw.

“…about dying?” Richie asks, wincing and hating himself even as he asks the question.

Eddie gapes at him like that’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard Richie say. “No, you moron! About _you_ dying!”

Now Richie’s the one who's gaping.

“Do you have any idea what it was like?” Eddie demands. “To see you like that? You had blood coming out of your nose and floating _up_ , it was floating! Your brains were leaking out of your ears! And every time I dream I…” His voice turns into a croak. “I’m back there, and I don’t have a fence post, or I’m stuck, or something, and I can’t… I can’t save you.”

Richie lurches forward, hugging him, because he can’t _not_ , not after that. “I’m okay, Eds. You’re never going to get rid of me. I’m like herpes.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Eddie says, but it’s weak, and he puts his arms around Richie, too.

“I dream about you,” Richie admits. “Dying. Worst fuckin’ thing. Losing you—I don’t know if I could handle it.” He could handle losing the others, but not Eddie. He might literally drink himself to death if he lost Eddie.

This might be the stupidest idea ever, but… “Hey, you want me to, uh, sleep here? Just… y’know, maybe it’ll help.”

Eddie pulls back and Richie expects a _no_ , maybe even an annoyed joke, but Eddie just… nods. Shy, almost.

So Richie climbs in, and he tries to maintain his distance, he really does, but Eddie’s so warm and his body’s mostly healed so he doesn’t have to exclusively sleep on his back anymore propped up with some pillows, and it turns out Eddie’s kind of an octopus in bed and Richie doesn’t mind at all and he’s very warm and…

…and he’s so fucking groggy when he wakes up that for a second he can’t remember his name or where the fuck he is.

A few breaths later he’s sorted it out. Eddie’s the warm weight wrapped around him. That coconut smell is Eddie’s hair, from his shampoo. The light currently trying to kill him is from the sun, because it’s morning. He’s in his spare bedroom, in his house.

“Sorry,” Eddie mumbles, and to Richie’s horror he starts to pull away. “I can…”

Richie’s arms tighten around him before Eddie can get any further. “No, it’s okay, it’s… uh, I…” _For fuck’s sake._ “I like it. I want, uh, I want this. If I had my way we’d sleep every night all wrapped around each other like hibernating rattlesnakes.”

Yeah, no, he is not romantic in the slightest. What kind of fucking metaphor is that?

Eddie blinks his big brown eyes up at Richie, those fuckin’ doe eyes that make Richie want to do stupid things like do a handstand if it’ll make Eddie notice, make Eddie laugh. “You… mean that?”

Richie nods. “I mean. We’d do other things at night, too. But like. Once we got to the sleeping part, that’s how it’d happen.”

Smooth, Trashmouth. No wonder he’s such a Casanova. If he didn’t have his hands full of Eddie he’d smack himself in the face.

And Eddie—Eddie is so much braver than anyone, including himself, believes—and he pushes himself up, a soft, shy smile tugging up the corner of his mouth, and he presses that smile right up against Richie’s lips.

Richie’s pretty sure he hears a goddamn chorus of bells.

“Wow, Eds, should’ve known that after all my efforts it was snuggling in bed with you that gave you the hint.”

“Efforts?” Eddie stares at him incredulously. “What efforts? I’ve been walking around in my shorts and all those tight shirts and you never fucking took the hint.”

“That was on purpose!?”

“Of course it was on purpose! You think I wear shirts that tight for comfort!?”

“You think I clean the house all the time for shits and giggles!? You think I buy kale because I like it!?”

“Oh my God,” Eddie says, and then he kisses Richie again, possibly to shut him up, but then they just… keep kissing, all wrapped around each other, and Richie’s so fucking happy that if he really was a rattlesnake he’d be rattling his tail.

Or something.

Do snakes wag their tails when they’re happy? Or is that just dogs?

Whatever. Richie’s not a romantic, not by most people’s standards, but if you ask Eddie (and people do, constantly) offering to cuddle someone to help with their nightmares is pretty romantic, and Eddie’s the only person whose standards Richie cares about.


End file.
